


Rose-Colored Optics

by Caius



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One)
Genre: Abuse, Abuse of said hardware, Beating, Community: tf-speedwriting, M/M, Masochism, Murder threatened, Mutilation threatened, Sticky Hardware, Submission, Teasing, The kink is mostly on Cyclonus' side, Verbal Abuse, the abuse on Galvatron's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21586279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caius/pseuds/Caius
Summary: Written for tf-speedwriting today, for the prompt,“When you look at someone through rose colored glasses, all the red flags just look like flags.” [from Bojack Horseman]See tags for red flags. This is less, uh, fluffy than my usual Galvatron/Cyclonus stuff.
Relationships: Cyclonus/Galvatron
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28





	Rose-Colored Optics

He doesn't defend himself. Self-preservation programming demands, at least, that he try to turn the blows toward the better-armored parts of his person (although most of him is thickly armored; Unicron, for all the horrors he'd done to Cyclonus' Lord, had built him well). But he can't help but relish his Lord's touch, even in violence. 

It's the words that are hard to endure. "Stupid, incompetent, _disloyal_!" Galvatron berates him, and Cyclonus looks up at him in agony. 

"My Lord..." he says. "Twice as stupid as you think, but never disloyal!" It hurts to contradict him, and the searing agony of Galvatron's hand against his faceplates feels utterly, painfully, correct. 

"Fool," Galvatron says, crouching in front of him. "I almost think you mean that."

"Always, my Lord," Cyclonus says, glancing up at Galvatron carefully from where he lies on Chaar's cold ground. 

"Do you think," Galvatron says, his voice low and dangerous, "that you are a fool, for your loyalty?" 

Cyclonus flinches. "Never!" He says, and braces himself for another blow. "Only ever for failing to serve you well!" 

"Idiot." Galvatron says, and Cyclonus' ears prick up at the hint of proprietary pride, even fondness in his word. 

The punch in Cyclonus' abdomen is perfunctory, almost affectionate, and Cyclonus gazes up in hope. 

"How did Unicron ever come up with a warrior like you?" Galvatron's mood shifts abruptly to the philosophical. He shifts out of his crouch and seats himself comfortably on Cyclonus, settling his glorious aft right where he'd just punched. 

It's more comfortable for Cyclonus than it sounds. Galvatron's frame always runs hot, and Cyclonus was built well to take his Lord's weight. 

"I don't know, My Lord." Cyclonus gazes up now in total adoration. His own frame heats up in response to Galvatron, ready and waiting and desperately wanting anything his Lord wishes to take from him.

"Of course not." Galvatron's hand reaches out to play, idly and roughly, with Cyclonus' left horn. His knee shifts, digging into Cyclonus' right wing. 

Cyclonus whimpers involuntarily as he had not during the beating. Pain he can take easily and gladly; the tantalizing promise of pleasure is much harder. 

Galvatron laughs at him. "It's not folly, is it. It's lust." 

Shame crashes down on Cyclonus, but the arousal -- the lust -- does not diminish. 

"You can't resist my frame, can you. You follow _me_ because your _spike_ follows my thighs." Galvatron shifts downward, his strong thighs clamping down on Cyclonus' pelvis, his aft hot and heavy over Cyclonus' panel. 

"I--" Cyclonus can not deny his desire. He can, when necessary, lie to his Lord, but his frame is too hot, to close to letting go and falling open and _grinding_ that it would be utterly transparent. "You are glorious, my Lord, powerful and beautiful -- my spike is drawn to you like the rest of me--!" His panel tries to slide open, but it is jammed by the pressure of Galvatron's weight. 

His spike is trapped, like the rest of him -- he might be strong enough physically to dislodge Galvatron, but he could never -- and the pain is sharp and terrible and utterly, perfectly arousing. 

His hips shift before he can stop them, a short guilty little grind. 

Galvatron growls and his hands grasp painfully hard on Cyclonus' wing and horn and it seems almost as though he might relent, open up and ride Cyclonus hard, take overload after overload until he is, if not satisfied, bored. Instead he says, almost flippantly, "And if I cut that spike off, the rest of you would still follow?" 

Cyclonus shudders. It should be horrifying -- never again to feel Galvatron around him, never again to give Galvatron pleasure with his spike -- but the thought of Galvatron cutting the spike away with his own hands, keeping it as his toy and his trophy, maybe Cyclonus would even be allowed to watch Galvatron pleasure himself with it, pleasure that would always and forever be Galvatron's only, and Cyclonus' never -- "Always," he groans, low and deep, cooling systems working overtime to push the heat of his desire out into Chaar's thin atmosphere. 

But Galvatron is kneeling up, away from him, his face twisted in shock for a moment before he pushes it back into sadistic disdain. He shoves a knee down on Cyclonus' thigh, roughly, stiffing Cyclonus' pelvic scaffolding in its attempt to follow. "Cut it off yourself and I will kill you," he says. His kneecap shifts, the point of the poleyn digging sharply into the plate over Cyclonus' spike. "It belongs to me. Remember that. Just like the rest of you."

"Always," Cyclonus breathes, the relief of the touch and the pleasure of the declaration of ownership overwhelming any fear he might feel at the threat. Someday he will fail to please Galvatron and Galvatron will dispose of him and Galvatron will be right to do so; he is Galvatron's property and his spark and his spike and his processor all together glory in the knowledge. "Always yours, my Lord. Always." 

"Fool. Lustful fool," Galvatron tells him, but there's little heat in the words anymore. Whatever there might have been, Cyclonus has spoiled the mood. 

Galvatron stands up, knee for a moment putting whole weight on Cyclonus' tortured spike and dented panel, and the pain is a burst of pleasure in the cold desolation of Galvatron's leaving. 

"Always, my Lord." Cyclonus repeats. Galvatron glaces at him once, firmly and purposefully places his foot directly onto his crotch, his other foot on his wing, and briskly walks away, as though Cyclonus was forgotten, irrelevant in that moment. 

For a moment, Cyclonus lies still in the pain and the cold. He collects himself, slowly, cataloging the pain -- horn, face, wing, abdomen, crotch -- as mementos of his Lord's presence, his interest and ownership and even affection. 

He stands, carefully. He will need to repair himself, and then attend his Lord.


End file.
